Humility
by Shhasow
Summary: A chance encounter with a street urchin forces Jon to reconsider himself and his squire.  Written for Goldenlake's SMACKDOWN.


**A/N: **Not mine.

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><p><strong>Humility<strong>  
><strong><br>**

Wherever Jon went, his squire was at his side. Glued, seemingly, for the king could hardly wipe his arse without the boy watching him with those impassive black eyes. Jon still wasn't sure if the Bazhir watched from approval or wariness, either to learn or to be on guard.

So when Jon had to move among the Lower city, Zahir followed close behind, hand resting on his sword-hilt. The tall boy looked intimidating to be sure, with his proud carriage and scornful sneer plastered onto his lips. He glared menacingly at each passerby, threatening death or dismemberment with every look.

Jon sighed. The boy really needed to work on his social skills.

Suddenly, a small, fast-moving object raced between the king's guard. Muffled oaths sounded from each guard as they moved to intercept the boy, but the skinny child dodged and weaved until he arrived before the king.

It was Zahir who finally grabbed him; one large paw of a hand fastened upon the boy's shoulder and squeezed. The boy squirmed and yelped, but Zahir merely applied more pressure until the street urchin quieted and hunched his shoulders.

"M'sorry, m'sorry my lords," he cried. "But my ma, she be needing help right now, but no one will do nothin!"

Jon opened his mouth to apologize sincerely, but Zahir beat him to the punch.

"What's wrong, boy?"

Wait, that wasn't right.

The street urchin sniffed. He scrubbed at the tears and snot flowing down his dirty face. "My ma, she got set on by the street gangs. They, they took everything and beat her and no one's doing _anything_cause they're a-feared of 'em."

Assured that the boy was not a flight risk, Zahir lifted his iron grip and instead passed the boy a sweet from his pocket.

As the boy chomped happily, Jon hissed in his squire's ear, "What are you doing?"

Zahir looked with those level impassive eyes. "Is not every child in your realm your subject?"

"Of course, but it's a matter of safety, Zahir," Jon said defensively.

"Then I will go alone, your majesty. Surely I can handle a few street thugs?"

Jon scowled. "A squad can go."

Zahir shook his regal head. "I've involved myself, so I must be a part of the solution. I will go." The Bazhir took the child's other shoulder and let the boy lead him away from the monarch, towards the dirty streets and the even filthier side-streets.

Jon watched him, shocked. When Zahir had captured the boy, Jon had prepared to tell him to be easy on the boy, not to hurt him. Instead, the king was completely and utterly shamed by his squire.

Jon stood indecisively, his guards not quite muttering disapproval. He followed the retreating back of his squire as the boy disappeared into a side street, led by a begging street urchin.

A thought occurred to him, and not a pleasant one. Zahir was willing to risk himself on some errand for a Tortallan nobody, yet Jon himself would not stir himself to assist his own subject. He was duty-bound, by the code of chivalry and the vows he took when he had become king.

With a growl, he snapped orders to his personal guard and strode towards the darkened street. Twenty hardened soldiers formed up around the king in a square and as they turned the corner, Zahir and the boy stood there, waiting for them.

"What took you so long, your majesty?" Zahir asked in his normal, passive voice. Jon could have sworn that a bit of a twinkle had stolen into his black eyes, but that didn't seem right. His squire never had a moment of levity in his life.

Jon grumbled lightly, but spoke kindly to the dirty boy. "Let's find this mother of yours."

The small boy led them through the twisted roads of the Lower City. He had run far to get help. Jon recognized much of the surroundings from his youthful misadventures with the King of Thieves. He thought they were a few streets over from the Dancing Dove.

"The Rogue cannot help you?" he asked the boy, who seemed shocked that the king of Tortall accepted another self-styled king in his own capital with such equanimity.

The boy shook his head. "Ma did 'im a bad turn a while back. He won't lift a finger."

Zahir's voice growled with suppressed anger. "That's no excuse. He should leave aside personal beliefs and protect his people." His sly eyes didn't glance over at the king, but Jon knew the words were a rebuke for him.

The troop of soldiers that marched quickly through the Lower City drew few looks. It was a strange sight, an uneasy sight, which was why no one dared draw their attention even when a street urchin seemed to lead them.

Jon and Zahir sighed with relief when the boy ran ahead towards a slumped figure. Zahir would have admitted that this was a nerve-racking journey, even though it had been his idea in the first place.

They finally found the boy's mother. She was propped up against a grimy wall so caked with filth that Jon couldn't tell the color of the stone. One of the guards let out a low whistle. The woman had been thoroughly beaten.

Both eyes were already swollen shut. Her nose was broken, her jaw lay slack as if it were too much energy to close. Cuts and scrapes littered her visible skin. More sickening, however, were her torn and loosened clothes that implied something far worse.

Zahir glanced at Jon, a mixture of haughtiness and sadness. Jon felt sick to his stomach. He had ignored the boy out of practicality and practice, not spite. It was one thing to deny a little boy, likely a thief even at his young age and a troublemaker to be sure, but to see the actual evidence in front of his eyes hit him as a physical blow.

His squire had done the right thing, and he, the King of Tortall, had wanted only to return to the palace quickly and without fuss.

One of the guards in Jon's company was always a healer, and the man went directly to work on the broken woman. The swelling decreased, just enough for her eyes to peer through the dim light of the Lower City. She spied her boy and a low cry erupted from her chest as he darted towards her and hugged her gingerly.

Jon and Zahir watched as her injuries disappeared and mother and son's tears mingled together. "I can't believe he left her here to try to find help in Unicorn district." Jon shook his head.

Zahir shrugged. "What could he do? He couldn't defend her, so he went to find someone who could."

"I'm just surprised he thought it would work."

"It woudn't have." Zahir's voice was firm and a touch scornful. It dared Jon to disagree.

"If not for you, she'd be dead," acknowledged Jon.

The woman was eventually healthy enough to travel, and the guard carried her out of the Lower City and towards the palace. Her boy followed right on their heels. He always had a hold of her, whether it was a dangling hand or her sleeve or even a piece of hair. He wanted to make sure that she wouldn't get hurt again.

Jon had a few words with his chamberlain, and a position was found for the woman in the laundry when she recovered. The presence of all those tough women was better than any serving job with men. He also found a role for the boy as a message runner. His quick feet would come in handy on a job when he didn't have to dodge royal guards.

Their tasks complete, Jon and Zahir met in the king's private rooms. They were alone, and Jon poured them both a glass of an excellent wine. They sat before the crackling fire, thinking their thoughts. Jon broke the silence first.

"Why did you want to help that boy?" Jon asked, his eyes tracing the flickering flames of the fire.

"The better question is why you did not." The words were stiff, his face stiffer.

Jon sighed and swirled his wine. "I thought him a beggar at best," he admitted. "Or a cutpurse. They start young in the Lower City."

"He was not."

"Duly noted. I wasn't about to ask him. You never answered my question."

There was silence but for the cracking and popping of the fire.

"Among the Bazhir," Zahir began slowly, "it is dishonorable to the tribe to ignore a plea for help. Especially from the lowest. They have nothing but their pride, therefore abandoning it is a sign of gross misfortune."

Jon nodded slowly, ruminating over the thought. "It seemed more than that, though. This was somehow personal for you. Why?"

Zahir bought a few seconds by drinking a large swallow of wine. Jon waited patiently for his squire to overcome the intense emotions that blazed from his face, more emotion than he'd even seen from his squire.

The Bazhir gathered his thoughts and closed his eyes as if remembering a painful memory.

"When I was a boy, after my first year as a page, I returned home over the summer. I was proud, arrogant. I had new friends, powerful friends." Zahir shrugged. "I was more Tortallan than Bazhir.

"I was angry, too. Lord Wyldon had allowed the probationary page to stay, and we were upset. We being Joren, Vinson, myself. It didn't seem fair." Zahir's dark eyes met Jon's. "We were furious at you for pressuring Lord Wyldon to keep her. At least, that's how it seemed to us."

He continued. "Soon after I arrived home, a young girl came to my tent early in the morning and asked for my help. I am the son of the chief, and my father can be... difficult to approach."

If Zahir took after his father at all, Jon could well imagine that.

"She claimed that she needing help. Some of the boys were teasing her, tormenting her because she was a better sling-thrower than any of them. They were jealous, I knew, but I sent her away. Kicked her, even."

Zahir stopped, brooding again. Jon refilled his glass and uttered a soft, "Go on."

The Bazhir sighed and rubbed his eyes. "She killed herself a few days later after they set upon her. They never touched her with fists, but their sharp tongues cut her to pieces. She thought there was no one to turn to, no help for her, so she ate a dangerous herb and fell asleep."

Jon stifled a gasp. What a tragedy, and what a terrible weight to put on a young boy's shoulders. "You couldn't have known..."

Zahir gestured sharply. "Of course not, but it terrified me. I _was _that boy who called her a slattern for daring to use a weapon. I _was_ that boy who sneered that she could never be anything, being female. I and my friends _were_the youths who targeted the daring outsider and strove to make her miserable."

"Keladry of Mindelan."

Zahir nodded. "When I went back that autumn, I wanted nothing to do with Joren or his crowd, not when they goaded her with words and beat her with their fists. Though," he smirked slightly and traced one slight scar on his eyebrow. "The girl gave as good as she got. Better, from the bruises on Joren's pretty face."

He turned sober again. "When that boy on the streets braved the guards and the curses and bruises he was sure to receive, I had to reward his bravery and listen. When he pleaded for help, there was no alternative but to try."

Fiddling with his glass, Jon sighed slightly. "You cannot blame yourself, Zahir. You made a mistake, a terrible one, but you learned from it, and you're determined to never repeat it.

"Honestly, squire, you shame me. You are a better person than I, less jaded, more accepting. If not for you, I would have sent the boy on his way, a silver or two heavier, but no more. Because of you, that woman lives, and that boy will not grow up to be a thief, or a murderer, hardened by that life." He raised his glass and gestured towards Zahir. "May we all be more like the Bazhir."


End file.
